


Lariat

by Sylla



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Memory Loss, Reincarnation, also isn't very used to needing help in the first place, the Outsider is a little shit who doesn't know how to ask for help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6719344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylla/pseuds/Sylla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two hundred years since Empress Jessamine Kaldwin was murdered. Corvo is an aspiring artist attending Dunwall University, with no memory of ever being called Lord Protector.</p><p>But despite the Rat Plague being ancient history, something is rotten in the state of Dunwall. The Abbey of the Everyman, desperate to restore its declining power, has one last ploy up its sleeve. One that might just get rid of the Outsider – for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My prose is approximately as purple as the void heyoooooooo
> 
> a.k.a. how many water metaphors can I fit into my prose? all of them.

It had started with the dream. For as long as he could remember, Corvo had dreamed of wondrous, incredible things. He dreamed of falling through an endless nothing, of deep sea creatures, enormous whales so big they made him feel like an insect in comparison, rows of enormous teeth and white scars stark on sleek grey bodies. He dreamt of floating, buoyed on a sea of purple-blue light. That light suffused the dreams, throwing halos around the statues and street lamps and bits of old staircases that spun lazily, unmoored from all gravity, casting shadows that seemed somehow too stark in their wake. The light had always seemed to come from multiple sources, or perhaps from everywhere; Corvo had never been able to find the source. On some nights he felt as if he was close. When that happened, he felt as though, if he found the light’s source and peered into it, that it might swallow him whole.

The dream didn't come every night, of course, but it came often enough that he'd eventually realized it wasn't normal. He’d never really told anyone about the dream, first because his youthful mind couldn’t conjure the words to do it justice (“– and, and I saw a _whale_ , mom, and it was _huuuge–_ ”); and then, as he grew older, because he’d started to grow almost… possessive of the dream. He didn’t know why or how, but he had the feeling that it was _his_.

Tonight the dream was… different, somehow. It had always had an illusory sort of quality to it, like looking down at the bottom of a pond, but tonight everything was somehow sharper, clearer. He took a deep breath and felt more awake than ever. He stood at the edge of a precipice made from the façade of an old building, with nothing above him and nothing below and the light all around him, surrounding him and filling him so he could almost taste it on his back teeth.

“My dear Corvo,” a voice said behind him, and Corvo nearly jumped out of his skin. In all the years he’d been having the dream, he’d never heard anyone speak. What was more, he realized with a jolt, he recognized the voice from somewhere. _Somewhere_. He tried to turn, only to find his body wouldn’t respond.

“Not yet,” the voice said, unbearably close this time. A sensation of fingers on the space between his shoulder blades sent ice shivering down his spine. “We’ve barely even begun and already it all threatens to come crumbling down around you. I wonder, are you ready?”

And Corvo, suddenly back in control of his own body, turned –

– and saw the source of the light for the very first time

and

_fell_

 

With a gasp, Corvo surfaced into the waking world. For a long moment he laid in his bed, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. With a wince, he let go of his sheets – his hands had been so tightly fisted in them it almost hurt to unclench them.

“Corvo?” A voice drifted up from downstairs. His mother. “Shouldn’t you be leaving soon? You’ll miss your classes if you wait any longer.”

What? He looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table and his stomach dropped out – he was late. How had he managed to sleep through the alarm? With a string of curses he leapt from the bed, or tried to: the sheets had managed to wind themselves around his legs, and he fell off the side of the bed, bruising his elbow.

“Corvo, are you all right?”

“Yes!” he called down, struggling out of the tangle of sheets.

Three minutes later, and certain he’d broken some sort of land speed record for fastest shower and change of clothes, he hurtled downstairs into the kitchen and snatched a slice of buttered toast from the counter. His mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a mug of coffee; he made sure to give her a kiss on the cheek before rushing back out again.

“Have a nice day,” she called after him as he practically sprinted out of the house.

 

 

The commute was hell on a good day – not only because Corvo’s motorbike was so old it was perpetually in danger of giving up the ghost (and the rail system was a joke; he’d probably get there sooner if he walked), but because Dunwall University’s College of Fine Arts was smack in the center of Old Dunwall, right by the river, a nest of twisting cobblestone streets only half of which had been planned with any sort of vehicle in mind at all. Ironically, the relative wealth of the district had been its downfall: many poorer districts had been so devastated by the Rat Plague those few-hundred years ago they’d had no chance but to raze them completely and start from scratch. They’d been rebuilt with a mind to improve air quality and prevent another plague, and as a result were considerably more spacious. Old Dunwall, stretching from John Clavering Boulevard to Kaldwin Bridge, had been less affected by the plague, and so conserved the original street plan.

The tourism industry called it “authentic charm.”

However, today the streets were mercifully free of traffic, or at least the sort of traffic he couldn’t weave around, and in the end he was only five minutes late as he parked his bike on the corner outside the University’s main building. There was a buzz in the air as he crossed the courtyard, and he arrived at the Art and Design History class only to find the professor wasn’t even there yet. The other students were unusually animated for an early class, chattering amongst themselves.

“Corvo!”

He turned to see Callista waving him over from a seat halfway up the amphitheater. Cecelia was sitting next to her, looking as excited as was possible for her. Callista, a double History and Literature major, and Cecelia – like him, in Art and Design – had been two of the earliest friends he’d made at Dunwall U; something between the three of them had simply clicked, and they’d fallen into an easy friendship.

He made his way over and slid in next to them; there was an open newspaper lying on the desk.

“He’s made another one,” Callista said without preamble.

“What?” Corvo exclaimed. There was no need to specify which _him_ she was talking about; there was only one _him_ who could cause this much commotion amongst a bunch of aspiring artists.

The Outsider had made another painting.

“It was on the news this morning,” Cecelia supplied. Callista pointed to a short article in the open newspaper.

“They’re going to display it here for a few days before it’s sold. Here, Corvo! We could go see it!”

“I – yeah,” Corvo replied weakly. A chance to see one of the Outsider’s paintings was no small thing; most of them were snapped up by private collectors as soon as they appeared. Corvo had only seen them in photographs. Rumor had it the paintings had an almost hypnotic effect when seen in person, but it was hard to separate truth from fiction, and artists were a melodramatic bunch.

Nobody knew the real identity of the artist everyone referred to as the Outsider; the paintings had begun to appear a little over a year ago and had rocketed to fame almost overnight. The name had come about because, whomever they were, they used the Outsider’s mark as their signature. This little bit of heresy had been the first thing to attract the attention of Dunwall’s rich socialites; after all, what better way to flaunt one’s wealth and become an object of gossip at the same time than to purchase and display a painting with the Outsider’s mark, with the excuse that it was art?

The Abbey of the Everyman had a fit every time a new painting surfaced, but their power had been in decline for the better part of a century; taunting them had practically become a game amongst Dunwall’s elite by now.

“Sokolov is tearing his hair out,” Callista continued.

“Oh?” Corvo raised his eyebrows.

“I heard him talking about it the other day.” Cecelia’s stare was boring a hole into the desk. “He thinks it’s someone in the faculty stealing his thunder. He’s obsessed with finding out who it is.”

Corvo couldn’t contain a laugh. Professor Sokolov had benefitted from a brief fad for portraits a while back; the man had painted the High Overseer as well as several prominent members of Dunwall’s upper class. Now, however, all anyone wanted was the Outsider’s brand of abstract expressionism. The Outsider had forced him out of the spotlight with an almost casual ease. Well, good. Out of all his teachers so far, Sokolov was by far his least favorite – irritable, proud, and absolutely intolerant of any talking whatsoever in his lectures.

“Speak of the Outsider,” Callista muttered as the man himself strode into class with a place like a thundercloud, putting an end to any and all discussion.

 

 

The day passed with agonizing slowness for Corvo; he was filled with a strange mix of anticipation and anxiety, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the dream, or the painting, or both. Between classes, the three of them had tried several times to see the painting, but word had apparently spread quickly, and so many people had come to see it it had been impossible even to get into the hall where it was being displayed. In the end it was nearly six in the evening by the time the crowds had thinned out enough for them to make an approach.

Which was not to say it was easy: Corvo was forced to take advantage of his height to carve a path through the crowd and into the hall. The press of people was worse than the parties the student’s union organized semi-regularly at the pubs along the waterfront, and Corvo quickly lost Callista and Cecelia in the mass of people. He couldn’t quite see the painting from so far back, so he tried to move forward without stepping on too many toes. At last, a break in the crowd allowed Corvo to jam his shoulder through and wriggle through the space to the front, and –

The breath left his lungs like someone had punched him in the gut. There, on the canvas in front of him, stretched the stuff of dreams. _His_ dream. The whale, the broken buildings, the blue-purple light. It was all perfectly represented, down to the strange, swirling brush technique that somehow seemed to make the painting _swim_. How was that possible? He stared at it, lost, and barely noticed as the crowd eddied around him and he was forced slowly to the back.

_How?_

He’d never told anyone about the dream. Did the Outsider, whomever they were, have the same dream as him somehow?

The room felt suddenly airless; without waiting for Callista or Cecelia, Corvo staggered out into the hallway and braced himself on his knees, breathing deep.

“Does it impress you?” said a voice from behind him. Corvo jumped, and turned to face the speaker.

The man was young, with pale skin and dark hair. He leaned casually against a pillar, fine features set in a mask of indifference.

“I…” Corvo took a deep breath. “I suppose you could say that.” Truthfully he didn’t know quite how he felt; dizzy, maybe. The man looked at him and Corvo had the uncomfortable feeling of being stared _through_.

“The people in this room recognize something greater than themselves, but none of them will truly understand it. Not like you do, …”

“Corvo.” He found himself supplying his name almost automatically.

“Corvo,” the man repeated slowly, as if testing it out.

“What do you mean by – what makes you think I understand?” Corvo was fairly certain that whatever feelings the painting had provoked inside him, understanding was not one of them. The man tilted his head.

“I always recognize people who understand my paintings,” he said simply. There was a beat of silence as the full implication of what he said dawned on Corvo. Or rather, dropped on him like the proverbial ton of bricks.

“ _You’re_ —” Corvo cleared his throat, which suddenly felt dry. “You’re the Outsider.”

“My dear Corvo,” he said, and for a split second Corvo heard those words like they were echoing down a long hallway. Layered. He blinked and the feeling was gone. The man – the Outsider – smiled a smile that was impossibly inviting, somehow reminded Corvo of _teeth_ without showing any. It made him inexplicably nervous.

“Who else would I be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, as my friend put it: "permit me to introduce myself Corvo, I'm a man of wealth and taste..."
> 
> Thanks to Mengde for betaing!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y’all like worldbuilding because boy howdy is there a lot of it in this chapter!
> 
> For the confused, Dunwall U is just off Holger Square (where the Overseer Campbell mission takes place).

_“My dear Corvo.”_

_“Who else would I be?”_

It took considerable effort not to gape like a fish. The Outsider – the most sought-after painter in all of Gristol, the heretic who used the mark as his signature and defied the Abbey’s every attempt to track him down – standing right in front of him. Talking to him.

There was no particular reason to believe him: after all, nobody had actually _seen_ the Outsider, nobody even knew if it was the same person behind all the paintings. And yet… and yet. Standing face to face with him, this young man with his pale skin and his bruised-looking lips, light glinting off the rings on his fingers, practically dripping understated confidence –

Who else, indeed.

Half the city would have loved to trade places with him right now; Corvo could think of more than a few people in his class who probably would have killed to do it. Suddenly he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

“Um.”

The Outsider, for his part, didn’t seem particularly interested in filling the silence that now stretched to awkward lengths, but _did_ seem to be strangely interested in examining Corvo, sweeping a focused gaze up and down the length of his body, as though considering his suitability for a painting—

 _Painting_. The painting, of course.

“Hey, how did you…” he trailed off and looked back over his shoulder to where he could practically _feel_ the painting, tugging at him like an anchor, making the back of his neck prickle. He wanted to ask, _how did you know? How did you paint what I dream about?_ The question sounded insane even in his own mind. He turned back and started.

The hallway was empty. The Outsider was gone.

Corvo looked around quickly; the hallway was long and straight, without a lot of hiding places. He wasn’t hiding behind a pedestal or – no, that was a ridiculous thought. And he couldn’t have gone back into the hall without Corvo seeing him. He stood there for a moment, flummoxed.

_Son of a bitch._

It was just too much for one day. Ever since laying eyes on that painting he’d felt like his head was full of glass wool. Something felt _wrong_. He pressed the heel of his hand to one eye, and quickly left the building.

He made his way home entirely on autopilot, narrowly avoiding several of the more audacious drivers. Dunwall drivers weren’t nearly as reckless as those in Karnaca, where Corvo’s family occasionally spent their holidays with relatives, but they weren’t _good_ by any means. (It didn’t help that every driver seemed to enter the old streets and immediately lose their minds. You’d think cobblestone was a secret code for the suspension of all traffic laws.)

Corvo’s family home – an apartment that took up an entire floor of a centuries-old building – was located on the outer edge of the Estate District, where the more historic parts of the city bled into the newer buildings added just after the Rat Plague.

Too tired to even think about dinner, he mumbled an indistinct reply to his mother’s hello, dumped his backpack on the floor of his bedroom, and collapsed facedown on his bed. He was asleep in seconds.

 

  

 

The dream was back. There was a faint ozone tang on the back of his tongue, like a storm just before a lightning strike. The light was everywhere and nowhere again, and it imbued his skin with a strange bluish tone, making him look much paler than he should have been. Like he hadn’t seen the sun in _years_. Everything felt at once very bright and much too dark.

The promontory he was standing on was actually most of a brick building and part of a road; the building looked like it had spontaneously exploded, bricks and old timber projected out around it in a cloud. A school of fish swum lazily in midair around a ruined column.

Corvo began to walk forward, propelled by an indefinable feeling of missing something. It was oddly difficult to move; like trying to slosh through knee-high water. As he reached the edge of the promontory there was a rumbling sound, and rock slabs popped up like corks to form a path that slowly winded down.

 _Find me_ , something whispered somewhere in the back of his mind, a sigh of retreating waves over sand. Corvo jerked.

“What?” he called out to the emptiness. Nobody answered.

Tentatively, he began to make his way down the winding path, mindful of the edge. As he made his way down, he realized there was a strange sound in the air. Glass being ground under a heel, or… bone grinding on bone. The further down he went, the harder it became to move – waist high water, instead of knee-high. Gritting his teeth, he forged onwards. He didn’t know why, but it was important. Finally, he rounded an enormous chunk of rock – almost collapsed to his knees as the grinding sound doubled in intensity.

In front of him was an enormous waterfall that rushed up into the nothingness. Despite how big it was, the only sound Corvo could hear was the incessant grinding – which was now so loud it rattled through his bones, giving him a splitting headache. In front of the waterfall was a small rock platform, and on it, a pedestal with giant wooden spikes sticking outward around it, like a macabre bouquet all tied together with barbed wire and purple printed silk. There was something lying on the pedestal.

_find m e_

He staggered towards the pedestal, one hand clutching his head, stretched the other hand out –

_find me find me find me find mefindmefindmefindmefindmeFINDMEFINDMEFINDME_ **_FINDME_ **

– and as his fingertips brushed the object on the pedestal, everything turned black.

 

 

Corvo woke up with the grinding sound still echoing in his ears. Grey early morning light filtered in through his window. He checked his alarm clock and groaned, throwing an arm over his face: 5:47am.

He wasn’t used to the dream being this eventful. First the voice that had talked to him, now… whatever _that_ had been. He could still practically feel the sensation of overwhelming pressure behind his eyes.

Eventually hunger drove him to crawl out of bed and into the shower. He descended into the kitchen to find his mother reading the newspaper while having breakfast. The scent of fresh coffee filled the air, and the radio droned a popular song quietly to itself on the shelf.

“Well, look who’s up early! Are you feeling all right?” she teased as he filled a mug to the brim with hot coffee and loaded a plate with fruit and bread.

“Yeah, funny, mom,” he groused good-naturedly. “You should quit your job and become a comedian.”

Corvo’s mother, Celina, had been born in Karnaca before moving to Dunwall. Despite living there for the better part of two decades, she kept many traditions from her homeland. In this case: coffee so strong you could stand a spoon up in it. Corvo had already lost count of how many sleepless nights of work had been fueled by his mother’s coffee.

She nudged the newspaper towards him as he sat down. “Have you seen this?” Corvo turned it with two fingers so he could read the headline. **ABBEY OF THE EVERYMAN CONDEMNS LATEST ‘OUTSIDER’ PAINTING** , it read, and just beneath it: **High Overseer releases statement urging people of Dunwall to stay away from ‘heretical painting’**.

“I liked them better when they were busy accusing the _Prince of Tyvia_ movie of leading people away from the Strictures,” his mother sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Mom!”

“What? It’s true.”

There was a comfortable silence before his mother spoke again. “By the way, your father said he won’t be back from Morley until next week.”

“What? Why?” Corvo set his coffee down, looking at his mother. Now that he paid attention, she did look worried: a faint line had made its home between her eyebrows, which only happened when she was deeply concerned about something. She sighed.

“Apparently the reparation negotiations aren’t going that well; they wouldn’t let him say more on the phone. They might be pushing for too many concessions.”

“All right.” Corvo drained the last of his coffee and leaned over to kiss his mother on the cheek before pushing his chair out with a scraping sound. “Try not to stress too much. I’m sure dad’ll make it work.”

She smiled. “Of course.”

As he left the building he shot a message to Callista.

**[7:04am] Corvo:** _hey u guys at DunU yet?_

His phone buzzed a moment later.

**[7:04am] Callista:** _Yes, we’re having breakfast in the cafeteria. They have the tables out today_

**[7:04am] Callista:** _Did you pull another all-nighter??_

 **[7:05am] Corvo:** _why is everyone so surprised when I wake up early_

He snorted and shoved his phone into his jacket pocket. The commute was almost disappointingly normal, and by the time he got to the Dunwall U campus, the events of the previous day didn’t seem nearly so otherworldly, despite the dream.

When the weather was good enough (which was about three months of the year, if that), the university cafeteria put tables out in the courtyard of the main building. He found Callista and Cecelia finishing their breakfast together in a shady corner. Despite the fact that classes didn’t start for a good half hour, the tables were almost full; later in the day it would be almost impossible to find a spot.

“Here,” Cecelia said, nudging a ceramic cup on a saucer over to him. “We guessed when you’d be here and got you a coffee. It might be a little cold, though.”

“Cecelia, you treasure,” he breathed, taking the coffee gratefully.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Corvo?” Callista fixed him with a gimlet stare. “You left without saying anything yesterday, and now you’re up earlier than I’ve ever seen you.”

“I’m fine I just – listen, I have something to tell you. I think…” he leaned in, suppressing a sudden bizarre urge to glance over his shoulder, as though the man himself might be looming over them. “I think I might have met the Outsider yesterday.”

Callista’s eyes widened comically; Cecelia’s hands flew to her mouth so fast she overturned the last of her tea onto her art bag. The next five minutes were spent hurriedly mopping up the mess with the cafeteria’s all-but-useless paper napkins.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly once the situation was under control. I should’ve… lead in more, or something.”

“But you actually met him?” Callista sat back down, adjusting her blouse.

“Yeah – well, I think so. He said he was, at least.”

“What was he like?” asked Cecelia breathlessly, now that the shock had worn out somewhat. “What was he wearing – and his hair color – and what color were his eyes?”

“Um, he was – young, a lot younger than I expected; our age maybe. He was wearing a leather jacket, and he had rings on his finger, his hair was black, and…” Corvo trailed off.

 _Huh. What color_ were _his eyes?_ He found he couldn’t quite recall.

Just then, a commotion at one of the entrances caught their attention. Corvo twisted in his seat to see Overseers – at least twenty of them – crossing the courtyard with purpose towards the display hall, led by a man in a red coat.

“That’s the High Overseer,” Callista said, hooking onto his wrist with a viselike grip.

“They must really be worried,” Cecelia murmured.

“Or they want to make a statement – what?” Callista said defensively as Cecelia directed a reproachful stare at her. “I know you still like the Abbey, but they _do_ have a history of politicking. Just look at what happened during the Rat Plague.”

“That was a long time ago. And besides, they’ve changed a lot since then. They stopped the traditional Overseer recruitment, and…”

Corvo tuned them out as they gathered their things and headed to class. It was an argument he’d heard a dozen times before; Callista and Cecelia never seemed to sway the other, but it had never soured their friendship, either.

But he was worried about the Overseers. For whatever reason, he didn’t quite share Cecelia’s confidence that they were here simply out of concern for the citizens of Dunwall. And why was the High Overseer here? It was just a _painting_.

Somehow, he knew that wasn’t quite true. He stole one last glance at the Overseers before going inside.

 

What had started out as a more or less promising day was quickly darkened by the presence of the Overseers. A hushed air of apprehension descended on the campus – and on Corvo himself, he realized when he almost snapped at Cecelia for asking for the third time to borrow his eraser.

What was worse, he didn’t know why the Overseers’ presence made him so inexplicably anxious – he’d never even talked to one before, it wasn’t like he’d had bad experiences. But he couldn’t help it. When lunchtime rolled around and he spotted two Overseers still in the courtyard, he made a decision.

“Hey, go ahead without me,” he told Cecelia and Callista. “I… think I forgot some stuff in the classroom.” Without waiting for an answer he turned and jogged back up the stairs. But instead of going back to the classroom, he dodged up a narrow service staircase and through a fire escape.

The section of roof it gave out onto was small and rather lower than the adjacent roofs, and made a popular hideaway for students to smoke between classes, shielded from both the wind and from prying eyes. Thankfully, with the lunchtime rush, it was empty. He really didn’t want anyone seeing what he was about to do. Because, although not many students knew this, if one was athletic enough it was possible to climb onto one of the old chimney stacks and _jump_ –

He grunted as he caught the edge of the roof above and hauled himself up onto the tallest part of the campus buildings. The wind up here was stiff, unbroken by other buildings. Crouching low, he crept along the ridge until he found the skylight that looked into the exhibition hall. Flattening himself against the roof, he peered over the edge of the skylight and into the hall.

The first thing he noticed was that the painting was still there. The second thing was the two people who appeared to be seconds away from coming to blows in front of it. One was the man Callista had identified as the High Overseer; the other was the Dean of the school, Thalia Timsh. One of the skylight’s panes was cracked open to allow the breeze in, and through it he could hear every word.

“You cannot do this,” Timsh was saying. Her voice rose with every word. “I’ve told you people a thousand times, I will not compromise the integrity of this school by _kowtowing_ —”

“And _I_ have told _you_ , this matter is not open to discussion or pleas,” the High Overseer snarled back, no less apoplectic. “This is a public environment, the Abbey is well within its rights to confiscate and destroy this…” he turned to look at the painting, then shuddered and turned back. “This degenerate and heretical dreck.”

“Do you have any idea the value of—”

“There is no price too high for the safety of our flock,” the High Overseer overrode her, starting to pace. “We stand on the edge of the precipice; every day the Outsider’s wicked influences grow in the mind of the populace. The Abbey is the sole bulwark against his nefarious plans, and the day grows close when the people of the Empire will see that.” He whirled and pointed at one of the other Overseers. “You!”

The man jumped and stood ramrod straight. “Yessir?”

“The media should be arriving shortly. Lock the door and post a guard outside until such a time as we are ready to retrieve the painting; no-one is to enter. We must restrict the wandering gazes and the roving feet of the people.”

“Yessir.”

The High Overseer nodded in satisfaction, whirled on the spot and marched out with Dean Timsh at his heels, protesting. The Overseer inside slumped, waited a moment, and then followed them out. Corvo lay back against the roof and stared at the sky.

_They’re going to destroy it._

His hands were trembling for some reason; he shoved them in his pockets. For a long moment he stayed like that, desperately trying not to confront the awful truth that, in reality, he knew exactly what he was going to do next.

He couldn’t let them destroy it.

Sitting up, he removed his motorbike gloves from the side pocket of his backpack, slipped them on, grabbed the edges of the skylight and heaved; the hinges, rusted with age and the humidity endemic to Gristol, gave easily.

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this_ , he thought, quietly sending a prayer to whatever gods were out there that he wouldn’t break an ankle. _I must be going crazy._

Then, heart firmly lodged in his throat, he lowered himself through the skylight like exiting a swimming pool in reverse. Once he was dangling, hanging onto the lip of the skylight with both hands, he took a deep breath and dropped.

He landed with a thud and collapsed to the floor, winded, knees jarred but otherwise fine. For a tense moment, he expected Overseers to come rushing in – but it appeared they hadn’t heard the noise, or if they had, they hadn’t thought it worth investigating. When it became clear nobody was coming to investigate, he stole over to the painting and removed it. Thankfully, it had been displayed without a decorative frame.

Grimacing at what he had to do next (what if he – no, no, but he had no time), he took his sculpting knife from his bag and began cut the canvas at the back of the frame, staying as close to the staples as possible. For a few breathless minutes he worked, the hair at the back of his neck standing on end, expecting a cadre of Overseers to burst through the door at any moment. Then, suddenly, it was done. Standing up on shaky legs, Corvo set the frame aside and gingerly rolled the painting up. It was slightly too large and stuck out of the top of his backpack, but it would have to do.

Then, a sudden realization lanced through him: he had absolutely no idea how to get out.

The skylight? Impossible, too high. The door? Ridiculous. And the fire escape was on the other side of the building. Which only left one option: take it or leave it, and hope the Overseers were in a good mood. Some choice.

He strode to one of the windows at the back of the hall and raised it open. It gave out into a blind alley between buildings, which was good. But it was three stories up, it’d be suicide to try to jump down. Less good. However… he looked again. There was a narrow ledge running under the window, barely more than a cornice. And the fire escape for the building in front, a few meters away.

Silently praying his trembling legs wouldn’t betray him, he edged out of the window and onto the ledge. Inch by agonizing inch, he sidled along the it, backpack clutched in one hand, trying very hard not to think about the sound he’d make if he fell. A three story drop was survivable. Maybe. At last he was parallel to the fire escape – only a short jump across the dizzying gap left.

_I really have gone crazy._

Corvo jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ms_Chunks for betaing, headcanoning, and screaming with me about trash ship hell


End file.
